


Aetherial-Spun Glass

by OwlEspresso



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: Bits and fragments from the vast sea of aether.(My entries from the FFXIV writing challenge, run by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast on tumblr.)





	1. Voracious, Zenos

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish this, but here we go~
> 
> Find more writing and headcanons on my writing blog, which can be found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/)

It’s in his blood, he thinks. 

It’s in the slash and bend of steel, in the way he feels you feel his breath on the back of your neck, regardless of how close he is. It’s in the chase, in the graceful twist and grind when he’s interlocked in combat with you. 

Perhaps he’d been disappointed in you once, twice, but he can’t remember that unfortunate period of time. 

All he remembers, all he really wants to know is the sweet smell of your sweat when you finally knock him to the ground, your face contorted with the strain of battle. His gloved hand graces the length of your blade, metal grinding against metal as he reaches for you. He can hear the rattling of your breath as it pushes in and out of your lungs, and suddenly wonders if there are other ways he could make you sound like this, look like this.

“You’re hesitating,” he says and his eyelids droops, lips part in a way much too sultry for a man so close to death.

The hand you clutch your weapon with trembles and he clutches it like a desperate lover, uses your moment of weakness to toss it to the side. 

You give a surprised shout and his blood rushes down, down, down. You lunge for it, but he surges up from the ground and grabs your ankle like a vice, yanking you to the ground. A wheeze stutters against your rib cage with the impact. 

His gauntlets make grooves in the moist dirt as he scrambles atop of you like an animal, hair plastered to his forehead and hung around his face like a halo.

His pupils swallow his irises. Your little heart thuds in your chest with fear and something more and he can feel it, wants to reach for it. One of his dirty hands cups your cheek, thumb rubbing circles into your skin and he wants to take you here, right here. On the dirt with only the blood soaked sky to witness it. 

You shake, but you don’t struggle as he encompasses you. There’s something in your blood, organs, tissue and fiber of your being that sings louder for him the closer he comes.

He leans down, and you marry the steel trap of his jaw.


	2. Lost, Estinien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I obtained a thumb injury yesterday and wasn't able to post, but I'm back at it, now!
> 
> This prompt had a lot of angst potential, but I didn't feel like writing angst.
> 
> Find more writing and headcanons on my writing blog, which can be found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/)

You don’t know the Coerthas Highlands like the back of your hand, and until today, you’d never felt the desire to.

Your breath pulls in and out, burning the back of your throat, your lungs. A mixture of terror and arousal boils and rolls in your core, making your thighs tense and tremble. Your boots crunch against the piled-high snow, fighting for grip as you dive between the trees. Their thin, frozen trunks crackle like tinfoil bent taut. It all starts to look the same, after awhile, melding into a blur of white and dark grey.

The sunlight strikes the snow and it’s blinding. You shouldn’t have challenged such a renowned hunter. Not here, where you might as well be a little, lost fawn. Your calves burn and a sudden, chilled wind makes tears well up at the corners of your eyes. 

It’s a labyrinth of white. You’ve never been to this part of the highlands, before, and all you can do is hope to navigate out of this area and into somewhere—anywhere more familiar before nightfall.

Seconds and minutes meld together and frustration nearly makes you start shouting. The only thing that prevents you from taking that course of action is knowing you can’t give away your position.

A solid weight comes crashing down onto your back and you howl, crushed to the frigid snow. 

There’s a boot on the back of your shoulder, and you feel the tip of his lance press ever-so-gently against your neck.

Your thighs absentmindedly rub together, feeling so warm. A sharp comparison to the snow pressed to the bare skin of your neck.

“Estinien,” you greet, sounding far more winded than you’d intended. Your body eventually relaxes against the cold grip he has on you, only to jolt a moment later as a hand wraps around the back of your neck. The boot against your shoulder vanishes and you can do little but scramble upwards as he drags you back to your feet. 

You stumble, tremble, already winded from your long run. The cold has started seeping into your bones, chilling you to the core.

“If you wanted my attention, you simply could have asked,” he sounds like an exasperated parent.

“That wouldn’t be as fun! And I like it when you chase me,” you pout, but fish in your pockets to pull out his coin purse, handing it back to him, already missing its hefty weight.

“It was fun for you,” he corrects, “Chasing you down was child’s play. I could have done it in my sleep. If you’re going to make me play these strange little games, at least be considerate enough to make them entertaining.”

“R-Rude!” you squawk indignantly, “Well, I guess stealing from you was rude in the first place…”

“It was,” he says, and you can practically hear the eye roll in his voice, “Perhaps seek out the Rogues Guild in Limsa. If you ask nicely, they might teach you a thing or two.” Without another word, he turns around and prepares for a leap. What!? Already!? You’d worked so hard to get his attention!

“Estinien!” you nearly trip over your own two feet in your haste. Much to his credit, he doesn’t ignore you, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes may be obscured by that godforsaken helmet, just like the rest of his handsome (beautiful, aristocratic) face, but you can feel the agitation in his gaze, radiating from him like heat from a fresh hearth.

It’s that agitation that schools you into submissiveness, your voice quaking a little as you ask:

“I’m… lost. Can you walk me back?”


	3. Bargain, Aymeric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more writing and headcanons on my writing blog, which can be found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/)

“Where are you going, if I may ask?” The low thrum of Aymeric’s voice isn’t accusatory, rather curious. It makes you freeze in place, nonetheless. Your chilled fingers clutch onto your boot, dropping it moments later as you turn to look at him.

He’s still nestled underneath the sheets. The broad expanse of his body is lavished by rich, blue sheets, which conveniently dip over his hips to conceal his modesty. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, and his lips quirk into a little smile. I’ve got you, he says, but doesn’t say it at all. 

You wish he would. You wish he’d cave in and just admit that he wants less or no space between you, wants to hold your hand, wants to feel the press of your body fitting snuggly against his own. He never does. It’s guerrilla warfare, composed of coy smiles brief touches and soft words. He pretends to not see the way your gaze lingers on his plump lips when he talks, pretends that he’s not looking for an opening, a chink in your armor that he can hook into.

“Leaving,” you respond, “I want to go see how the Sultana is fairing.”

“At four in the morning?” you look down at your lap, hands pressed over the cotton fabric of your pants, “If what the reports say are to be believed, she’s just woken up. And I assure you that she won’t take kindly to you barging in at such an ungodly hour.”

“I…” it’s difficult to articulate your feelings. You want to stay, but to stay without complaint is to surrender, to give him what he wants. And is that so bad? No, it’s not. You should be giving him the world, should be falling at his feet. Citizens of any sex and class would kill to be where you are right now, but knowing that makes it all hard to stomach. Overwhelming.

All you’ve ever known is violence and competitiveness, and you’re scared to leave it.

“Stay,” he beseeches, voice a low croon. It sends a shiver up your spine. His eyes crinkle upwards with his smile, a show of unadulterated joy. He hides nothing from you, shows you just how much he wants with the look on his face.

“I have places to be,” your voice crinkles. You want to stay. You really do. But there’s the tiny voice in the back of your head that says “If you stay, this becomes real. This becomes commitment.”. It scares you.

“Can I not persuade you?” his voice melds against the silver of the walls and tiled floor, the blue tapestries that hang from the walls. You drag your gaze along them and pretend you can actually see their intricate details. It takes another sigh of your name to get your attention, “I’ll have you brought the finest breakfast in the morning. Whatever you’d like.”

“You’re trying to bargain me into your bed, now?” you can’t keep the smile off your face as you look at him once more, “Honestly, I’m not worth all this, Aymeric.”

“Your modesty is appreciated, but I think that is up to me to decide,” he reached a hand forward, eyelids drooping in a sultry, soft look. Your eyes glued to the move and stretch of his muscular torso. How warm he must be. How handsome he is. How dedicated he’s grown towards you, despite your warnings, “Come morning, I’ll have the chefs make your favorite.”

Your hand trembles as you reach forward to take his, thoughts rumbling and shaking like a cart’s precious cargo over rugged, bumpy terrain.

His blue gaze locks with yours and he has you hook, line and sinker.


	4. Estinien, Vault

Your eyes are glued to Estinien, and they don’t leave him. You track the lift of his body off the ground, the twist of his agile form as he vaults into the air, ascending skyward like so many of his kind before him. His armor, which black gleams under the burning sunlight, could be mistaken for the hide of a dragon. Perhaps, one day, that dragon blood will grow him wings and let him fly.

His blade sails through the air, agile body contorting to avoid the angry claws and wings of the dragon. The beast is growing frustrated, movements becoming sloppier and sloppier with each passing moment. 

The steel of its blade cuts through the creature’s already loosened hide, and manages to strike its target at the heart. A horrible roar echoes through the cavernous landscape as it crumples to the ground, wings folding like an embrace around its carcass.

Estinien touches back down a mere moment later, as nimble and flawless on his feet as ever.

“You could have lent a hand, warrior,” he’s not the slightest bit out of breath, despite the fantastic, physical feats he just accomplished, “I asked for you to accompany me for a reason, you know.”

“My apologies,” you said softly, “It was just so beautiful. I was too awed to move,” had he looked like he was struggling, you would have jumped in at an instant. But Estinien rarely ever needed help. There’s a reason why the Azure Dragoon was so lauded, so worshipped. He huffs and turns away, a stray strand of his hair peeking out from his helmet and swaying with the motion.

“Spare me the flattery. There’s more work to be done,” he continues to speak, likely telling you where you’ll need to head next, but it goes in one ear and out the other. You admire the curvature of his armor, how the sharp edges gleam and shine under the frigid sunlight so beautifully. You wonder if he’d teach you how to fight so beautifully.

You wonder if he’d let you vault in the air with him, perform that devastating dance as a duo.


	5. Shifting Blame, Ysayle

Fresh light glistens off the icicles and off the frozen ground, near blinding you, forcing your gaze upwards. Ysayle clutches her arm and shudders, her godly form having humbled her. The way she became Shiva is unnerving at the very least. You never dreamed that a mere mortal could morph into an essential god, much less this slender slip of a woman…

“You certainly live up to your reputation,” she says, voice every bit as haggard as she looks. There’s a bruise on her right cheek and a slight limp to her walk, but she seems none the worse for wear. Even if she and Shiva were one and the same, it seemed that the primal had shielded her from most of the damage.

“I’m glad to have impressed,” you reply flatly. Despite coming all this way, you’re unsure if you want to apprehend her. It was your job to deal with primals, not wrangle the Ishgard’s many foes.

“I suppose you did, but you—you who has been blessed by Hydaelyn, must understand that the Ishgardians are the ones to blame for all these terrible years of war,” she looked to you in a way most pleading. Ah, did she really think you’d try to arrest her?

“Perhaps,” you weren’t an expert on Ishgard’s expansive history by any means, after all, “But I’m not sure that the women and children killed in Dravanian attacks are in any way at fault—are you sure you’re not just shifting the blame to make yourself feel better? About killing innocent people?” the words are biting, but you keep your tone inquisitive and casual, as though asking about the weather.

Her eyebrows nettle into a scowl and her posture stiffens, immediately defensive.

“I don’t—I never meant for any of that to happen!” she insisted, staggering towards the edge of the ancient arena, “All I want is peace. You must understand—I do all of this in the name of stopping all this meaningless bloodshed.”

Her excuses nearly made you roll your eyes. It was easy for her to say that when she wasn’t the one suffering, perishing in the vicious flames the dragons brought with them. Had she witnessed the destruction they brought with them, the lives they’d taken? 

It was easy for her to say when she wasn’t the one suffering.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you huffed, shaking your head. Her scowl grew, likely frustrated at your refusal to believe her. You didn’t pay it any mind. Instead you ventured to the exit, purposefully bumping shoulders with her as you walked passed.


End file.
